left. I want--I don' know, I don' know."

The seller roared. McTeague moved slowly away, gazing stupidly at the
blue slips of pasteboard. Two girls took his place at the wicket. In
another moment McTeague came back, peering over the girls' shoulders and
calling to the seller:

"Are these for Monday night?"

The other disdained reply. McTeague retreated again timidly, thrusting
the tickets into his immense wallet. For a moment he stood thoughtful
on the steps of the entrance. Then all at once he became enraged, he
did not know exactly why; somehow he felt himself slighted. Once more he
came back to the wicket.

"You can't make small of me," he shouted over the girls' shoulders;
"you--you can't make small of me. I'll thump you in the head, you
little--you little--you little--little--little pup." The ticket seller
shrugged his shoulders wearily. "A dollar and a half," he said to the
two girls.

McTeague glared at him and breathed loudly. Finally he decided to let
the matter drop. He moved away, but on the steps was once more seized
with a sense of injury and outraged dignity.

"You can't make small of me," he called back a last time, wagging his
head and shaking his fist. "I will--I will--I will--yes, I will." He
went off muttering.

At last Monday night came. McTeague met the Sieppes at the ferry,